


Oh, Such A Blunder

by iamshame



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Light Bondage, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Safewords, Teacher-Student Relationship, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamshame/pseuds/iamshame
Summary: Philip feared that Jefferson was about to behave as a good man should - push Philip away, express his disgust, tell him to go home, tell him he didn’t think about him that way. But Jefferson rapidly proved that he was not a good man.18 year old Philip Hamilton forms a dangerous fascination with his dad's barely-tolerated-acquaintance/archenemy Thomas Jefferson. And then starts going over to his house for tutoring. And then starts sleeping with him.Porn with very little plot. Ages have been tweaked a bit (Jefferson is approx twenty years older than Philip). Philip isn't underage but it definitely isn't a very ethical relationship. Slightly unfinished random piece of trash, will be about 15,000 words





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically based in the UK because I have no idea how the American education system works? Sorry. This is what it says on the tin, not a healthy relationship (though no dub/non-con). I am a disgrace, don't read if this isn't your thing.

Philip remembered the first time he had met Thomas Jefferson. In person, that was. The name had been something of a substitute swear-word through the house in his childhood years. While his mother had strongly disapproved of their father demonstrating his occasionally foul language, she could do little more than roll her eyes when he snarled “oh _JEFFERSON_ ” in towering anger. The man’s terrible reputation preceded him - occasionally Philip had heard his father come slamming into the house, spitting and snarling about “fucking goddamn fucking Jefferson”, and the television had been sharply turned off if his smirking face had dared to appear there. It was no secret that Dad and Jefferson were fierce enemies. 

 

Their first face-to-face meeting, however, had been when Philip was fifteen. He’d finally been allowed to attend one of his father’s formal work parties after much persuading of his parents, and now he was seriously regretting his efforts. He was dressed up in a fancy suit, huddled close to his mother in his nervousness, while his dad flitted from group to group, charming and laughing and talking a mile a minute. Philip had felt the familiar warm glow of admiration for him. He’d wished that he was that confident, that witty, that intelligent.

 

His mother had squeezed his hand unobtrusively, and winked at him. “Don’t let your father fool you,” she whispered. “He’s just as human as the rest of us, you know.” (Oh, how well they would both know that, before long.)

 

And then, a loud, booming laugh, a characteristic accented drawl, and Philip saw his father stiffen and then spin on his heel. “Jefferson.”

 

Thomas Jefferson was a very tall man, over six foot (though maybe that was the unusual heeled boots he was wearing). Indeed, he towered over Philip’s father as he leaned in to shake his hand, both of them wearing a barely concealed sneer. His skin was dark (the tone so even Philip wondered if he was wearing make-up), his eyes flashing with passion, and his hair an extravagant, bouncing afro. He was wearing a perfectly cut _purple_ suit, and an elegantly trimmed dark beard. 

 

“Eliza!” Jefferson called, to Dad’s obvious disgust as he bounded over. Mum, though she had often joined in his father’s decrying of Jefferson’s political views, was much more polite than he - she smiled and kissed his cheek and exchanged pleasantries with him. 

 

“And _this_ must be the _little Hamilton_ ,” Jefferson said warmly. His friendly tone was rather at odds with the slightly patronising words, but Philip hastened to extend his hand anyway. 

 

“Hi, Mr. Jefferson, yes, I’m Philip, it’s very nice to meet you.”

 

Jefferson’s hand was very big and comfortably warm without being sweaty, as Philip feared his was. “ _Charmed_. You are the very spitting image of your father.”

 

Philip gave a half-laugh, as he wasn’t sure that was a compliment, coming from his father’s sworn nemesis. “Thanks, people often say…” 

 

“Hands _off_ my son, Jefferson, you snake,” Philip’s dad called from behind them, and Philip gave another awkward laugh. He felt like he couldn’t take his eyes off Jefferson though, his presence was so _bright_ and overwhelming, it was like looking into the sun. 

 

“So, Philip, you must be doing your GCSEs?” Jefferson asked politely, ignoring Hamilton’s comment. 

 

“Er, yeah, I am actually,” Philip said, surprised. Dad quite often forgot what year he was in at school, so having a stranger remember was quite disconcerting. 

 

“What are you taking?”

 

Philip listed his subjects, and Jefferson hummed approvingly. “Well, I should think your daddy is very proud of you, little Hamilton. What…?”

 

The conversation was brought to an abrupt halt by Dad swooping in, grabbing Philip by the shoulder, and loudly declaring they really need to find some better company. Philip was dragged away with an odd feeling of regret, and the unusual impression that his father seemed to be being very rude and, well, mistaken about the situation. It wasn’t a common feeling for him to have - he looked up to his father enormously, idolised him, almost. He never thought Dad was _wrong_.

 

Well, over the next couple of years that view changed dramatically. That very summer his father published the infamous newspaper article blowing his secret affair wide open. And then his mother kicked him out of the house, and then he very nearly lost his job, and then he ‘went away’ to somewhere Philip strongly suspected might be rehab. 

 

Life was very confusing and difficult and unstable for a while. Sometimes Philip found Mum crying in Dad’s study, and sometimes she found him crying in his room, but they got each other through it. He threw himself into his schoolwork and got fantastic grades and started working towards his A-levels. And eventually, his father came back into the house, at first just once a week, and then he moved back in properly. 

 

And then his mother started inviting Thomas Jefferson round for dinner. 

 

She proposed it one evening as they all ate together. Dad spluttered and choked around his forkful of shepherd’s pie. 

 

“ _Jefferson_? _Here_?”

 

“Yes,” Mum said calmly. “He may have some bizarre views, but he’s entertaining. And funny. And good company. And…” she added as Dad opened his mouth again. “It’s my house. And I want him here.”

 

Dad closed his mouth again. Once he would have argued, but now, after everything, he seemed quieter, smaller somehow. 

 

So, Thomas Jefferson came to dinner. He was loud and colourful, and seemed to drive away the silence that had seeped into their house. He and Dad argued fiercely over every meal, but it was much better than the tense quiet. Philip and Ange were deemed old enough to sit and listen to what amounted to continuous shit-talking, but after the initial shock of it, Philip found he enjoyed listening to the debates. He got to see his father back to his old self, loud and furious and fearless, and he got to see Thomas Jefferson languid and witty and occasionally moved to digging up some truly spectacular insults. 

 

“Listen here, you short-arse weasel-faced motherfucker,” he drawled, pointing at Hamilton lazily. “What you really understand about politics could be written on a fucking postage stamp.”

 

Ange and Mum had long since gone to bed, which was how the foul language had exponentially increased (though that might also have had something to do with how much wine had been consumed). 

 

“Fuck you, you spineless cockroach…” Dad began, and then Mum’s voice came faintly from upstairs. “Alexander?”

 

Dad leapt up immediately, saying, “We will finish this in a moment,” threateningly, and scampered off to answer the summons. Jefferson gave a dark chuckle and poured himself another healthy glass of red wine. 

 

“D’you want any, little Hamilton?”

 

“Erm,” Philip said eloquently. He’d had a little earlier - he had turned eighteen a couple of months ago now, and it was nice, though he was a little shy about drinking when there was company, particularly company that he would quite like to impress. (Even if the company insisted on calling him that odd, vaguely contemptuous nickname). But he didn’t want to decline. “Yeah, sure, I mean, please.”

 

Jefferson smirked and sloshed some into his glass. “You’re so polite. Where did you learn that? Certainly not from your father.”

 

Philip laughed. “My mother, I guess.” He took a sip to hide his awkwardness. When he lifted his eyes again, Jefferson was watching him appraisingly. He wasn’t wearing the purple suit this evening (though he often did to dinner, much to Dad’s scorn). He was a dark red jacket, and had loosened his tie earlier, showing off his tanned throat. A moment later Philip wondered why on earth he had noticed that, and swallowed his wine hurriedly. 

 

“How’s school going?” Jefferson drawled. “You’re doing your A-levels, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Philip said, nodding. “English Lit, Politics and History.”

 

“Nice,” Jefferson said, and he actually sounded impressed. Philip fought the blush rising in his cheeks. “When are your exams?”

 

“Well, I’ve got mocks after Christmas, and then the real things are end of May, beginning of June.”

 

“You feel confident?”

 

Phillip shrugged, shyly took another sip of wine. “I mean, I dunno. It’s a lot of work, and a lot of _arguing_. My fault for choosing essay subjects, I know. But I feel like, er, watching you and Dad teaches me a lot about that.”

 

Jefferson gave an easy laugh, leaning back in his chair. His unwavering focus on Philip didn’t shift though. “You’re bright, kid. I like you. So, you have much time for anything else, besides the studying?”

 

“How do you mean?” Philip asked, flustered.

 

Jefferson shrugged, and his shrug seemed enormous compared to Philip’s - a great ripple of his broad shoulders and a flamboyant flap of his arms. “Y’know, the stupid teenage shit. Going out with friends. Meeting girls.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Philip blushed again. 

 

“Oh, I, er… Don’t have much time, to be honest,” he said lamely. He didn’t want to say the real reason - that he’d lost most of his friends in the apocalyptic fall-out of his dad’s article. First he’d fought people for talking shit, then he’d fought their friends, and then he’d fought his own friends for not sticking up for him. It had been horrible and messy and now he was pretty isolated in his year.

 

“Eh, fair enough,” Jefferson said, but Philip could see the sharpness still in his eyes. “Your work’s important, and…”

 

At that moment, Dad burst back into the room and resumed his and Jefferson’s argument as if he hadn’t even paused for breath, and Philip sat back for the rest of the evening and watched the two of them row until his dad finally threw Jefferson out of the house. 

 

The look in Jefferson’s eyes was still in his mind though, even as he trooped up to bed. There was something strange about the man, something powerful, something intriguing. Philip wondered idly how old he was. He knew he was older than his dad, so he must be at least twenty years Philip’s senior. 

 

At that point he decided he’d really had enough to drink and that he should get himself to bed before he had any more stupid, weird, inappropriate thoughts that he really shouldn’t be having.

 

***

 

It was a couple of days later when the note arrived, addressed to his mother. She was reading it at breakfast when Philip came down, and she smiled at him as he sat down groggily with a bowl of cereal. Dad was sitting on the worktop, reading his paper furiously. 

 

“You all right, Mum?” Philip asked. “What’s that?”

 

“Note from Mr. Jefferson,” she said casually. Philip tried to seem disinterested, continuing to shovel cereal into his mouth. 

 

“Oh?”

 

“Why can’t he send a text, does he know what century we’re in?” Dad griped from the corner. Philip privately agreed, but said nothing.

 

“Yes, it’s about you, as a matter of fact.”

 

Philip glanced up and raised an eyebrow.

 

“He’s offering to tutor you.” 

 

“What?” Philip and his dad asked simultaneously.

 

“Mmmm. Says you seem a boy with a lot of potential, and he thinks your arguing skills could need some more honing, so you’re welcome to pop round to Monticello if you want any lessons.”

 

“Oh,” Philip said, completely taken-aback. His head whirled. A large part of him really felt that spending any more time with Thomas Jefferson was probably not a good idea. He was really too interested in a man old enough to be his father for his own good, and goddamn that was not a part of his psyche he thought needed any probing. It would only cause awkwardness, and more stupid blushing, and him making a fool out of himself, and…

 

“The fucking cheek of it,” Dad snapped from the other side of the kitchen. “Absolutely not, who does he think he is?”

 

Philip’s jaw clenched.

 

“ _I’ll_ tutor you if need be, you’re not going near that shitstain.”

 

“Language, Alexander!” his mother admonished him, as if he were one of the children. But it was too late, Philip’s blood was boiling. His dad thought he could just _forbid_ _it_ , did he? Thought that _now_ he could offer up help with Philip’s exams, only now there was some kind of competition? Thought he could tell Philip what he could and couldn’t do, after he’d gone and torn the whole family apart with his sheer _selfishness_?

 

“Yeah, sounds good,” he said, acting as if his father hadn’t spoken.

 

His dad gave an outraged squawk, but his mother nodded approvingly and kept reading the note. “Well, he says you’re welcome to go there the day after tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

 

And that was how Philip ended up on the doorstep of Jefferson’s magnificent, well, mansion was the only word for it. Monticello - hardly the only house in the neighbourhood to be named by its owners, but certainly the most pretentiously so. 

 

Clutching his textbooks and some notepaper, Philip rang the doorbell nervously, and waited. Sooner than he had expected, there was a clatter of noise from inside, and Thomas Jefferson threw open the door. He was wearing the infamous purple suit.

 

“Little Hamilton! Come in, come in. I hoped you’d come.”

 

He was ushered into the enormous, echoing hallway and toed off his shoes nervously as Jefferson insisted on taking his coat, and then fairly dragged him through to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. Then Jefferson took him to “a” study (Philip had noticed that it clearly wasn’t _the_ study), and indicated that he should sit in one of the huge, crimson armchairs. Philip perched on the edge of the seat. Opposite him, Jefferson flung himself into the chair sideways, so that his _very_ long legs hung off the arm.

 

“So. Little Hamilton. Let’s talk. Whaddya want to argue?”

 

Philip hesitated, and then stammered a bit, until Jefferson just reached out an imperious hand for one of his textbooks. Philip handed it to him. Jefferson flicked through it rapidly while Philip took a sip of coffee, tried to relax a little, and not become too intimidated by the luxury and the size of the room they were currently in (bookshelves all the way up to the very high ceiling, Jesus Christ).

 

“All right then. So. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Why’s he a good writer? Is he a good writer? If not, why not?”

 

At first Philip stammered and stumbled his way through his hastily-put-together answer, but Jefferson was in fact a very patient teacher, contrary to appearances. He asked Philip questions to flesh out his opinion bit by bit, and then encouraged him to start the little speech again from scratch. And then he proposed the opposite point of view, and Philip objected, and before he knew it they were volleying back and forth like Jefferson and his father did all the time (though with less swearing - Philip didn’t dare).

 

Once they’d finished attacking Coleridge, they moved on to Churchill’s post-war politics, and then the history of democratic thought, and then back to literature, until Philip was dizzy and exhilarated and riled up and his nervousness was almost entirely forgotten. Jefferson was good at arguing, of course, very good, but not so good that Philip didn’t think he could beat him, given the opportunity. Philip left the house at a much later hour than he’d planned, feeling the enthusiasm for his subjects that had been fading with the boredom of revision return. He also felt warm and giddy at having been the sole focus of Thomas Jefferson’s attention for four hours, but tried to convince himself that that was perfectly normal and he was just enjoying having something akin to a friend.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It became a routine. He would go round to Jefferson’s about once a week to debate. At least, at first it was only debates. Then one day, Jefferson confessed that his throat was a little sore, and could they do something else instead? And so Philip found himself sitting on an ornate, richly cushioned stool in front of a beautiful grand piano. 

 

“I’ve only really had a few lessons with my mother,” he mumbled, and Jefferson smiled.

 

“That’s no matter,” he said, his voice very slightly raspy. “Show me what you’ve got.”

 

Philip played. Like his arguments, it started off faltering, and then bloomed in confidence as Jefferson nodded in approval. Towards the end of the piece, Jefferson leaned over and played a little accompaniment on the other side of the keys. Philip nearly lost concentration entirely with the sudden presence of his tall, warm body behind him, but managed to hold it together.

 

“Very good, little Hamilton,” Jefferson breathed, once he had finished. He didn’t seem to be showing any inclination to move away, and Philip was torn between being thrilled and mortified. 

 

“Thanks. Er… Why do you call me that?” Philip said stupidly.

 

He could hear the smirk in Jefferson’s voice, though he didn’t dare turn around - they’d surely be nose to nose. Or, well, considering that he was sitting down, more like nose to crotch, which would be far worse. “What, ‘little Hamilton’?”  


“Yeah.”

 

“Well, I’ve said before, you are the spitting image of your daddy,” Jefferson said. “It’s hard to forget. But I have to say, you are much more different than I gave you credit for, Philip.”

 

And of course, of course, he said Philip’s real name now, when he was practically leaning up against Philip’s back. Philip prayed Jefferson couldn’t see his face, which he was sure had gone beet red, or worse, the sudden tightness in his trousers.

 

“W-well, I guess that’s a good thing,” he stammered, and then leapt to his feet, clearly catching Jefferson off guard, and nearly falling over the piano in his haste. “Won’t be a sec, just going to the loo.”

 

He fairly dashed down the corridor to the bathroom, and then locked the door behind him in a rush. Jesus fucking Christ. Had he honestly just popped a boner over Thomas Jefferson, his dad’s worst enemy, _saying his fucking name_? He was screwed. He was so, so screwed. 

 

He managed to take a piss, despite his _problem_ , and then washed his hands in the freezing cold water and thought about terribly unsexy things in the hope that one of the two would help. Something certainly worked (maybe it was just the blind, sickening panic), so he arranged his curls a little more neatly, and then pattered back along to the music room with what he hoped appeared to be childish abandon. 

 

For the rest of the evening, Jefferson played the piano for him. But Philip was terrified to realise that something had _changed_. And it wasn’t that Jefferson had become quieter and more reticent. No, he was more big and brash and powerful than ever, despite his sore throat - laughing heartily, asking Philip to come and sit next to him at the piano, unnecessarily repositioning Philip’s hands on the keys. 

 

Philip left Monticello that evening in a burning haze of shame and arousal. Clearly trying to avoid his thoughts about Jefferson had not worked out. Maybe it had made things worse - he should have been spending more time thinking about how _repulsive_ and _evil_ he was, instead of ignoring the matter.

 

Then again, the more time he spent with Jefferson, the less he was certain of how repulsive and evil he was. Sure, some of the man’s political views were just plain _wrong_ , but he was still very charming, and very easy on the eyes, and here he was giving up hours of his time just to entertain and educate Philip.

 

_Maybe he’s only doing that to get into your pants_ , a small cynical voice in Philip’s head pointed out. Alas, that train of thought didn’t get him anywhere either, as though he was well aware that the idea of a man his father’s age basically exploiting him for sex should be very bad and wrong, some dark and primal part of him seemed to quite… like it. 

 

The walk back home seemed long and cold, compounded by the fact that he spent a lot of it dawdling and pacing back and forth in agitation, but he still hadn’t come to any conclusions by the time he reached his house. His mother was still up, sitting in the lounge watching telly. To Philip’s surprise, Dad was there too, asleep on the sofa beside her, curled up with his head almost on his lap, his glasses askew. Mum was gently stroking his hair.

 

Philip didn’t want to disturb the rare domestic scene, so he snuck up the stairs, had a very cold shower, and then packed himself off to bed. 

 

Unfortunately, sleep didn’t seem to come easily to him. He tossed and turned and tried _not_ to think about Jefferson’s big, wide hands, and his hair, and the strength in those muscular brown arms, and the sharpness of his smile, and the flash of fire in his eyes. Tried not to think about the warm press of his body up against Philip’s back. The way his accent had drawled around “spitting image of your _daddy_ ”. The way his hand had lingered possessively on Philip’s shoulder as they’d said their goodbyes.

 

Philip’s sexuality had long ceased to be a source of torment for him - after one ill-advised experimental session with Theo Burr, they had both quickly decided that this _wasn’t_ for them, and since then he’d had a series of hook-ups and one-night stands with boys. A couple from his school (fewer of those as the drama about his father had boiled over) - more often just people he’d picked up in nightclubs, using his cute freckled face and his big doe eyes and his shy smile to get his way. And, yeah, sure, some of them had been older, and bigger - big enough to lift him up and pin him to the nearest wall - because that was what he liked, nothing weird about that. But none of them had been _this_ much older. It wasn’t even the age thing though, it was the fact that he was Dad’s friend, no, worse, Dad’s _enemy_. And Philip _knew_ him, this couldn’t be some drunken one-off mistake, he’d see him again, even if they stopped their tutoring, at parties and at dinner with his parents. And this was ridiculous, Jefferson didn’t _want_ him. Did he? Why had he been so touchy-feely this afternoon, if he hadn’t _known_ , if he hadn’t been subtly encouraging Philip, if he hadn’t been intrigued by the idea of a schoolboy lusting after him, oh God, this was so bad, this was so wrong…

 

In the morning Philip lied to himself that he’d only dreamed that he’d jerked off thinking about Jefferson’s strong, dark hands holding him down.

 

If Philip had been sensible, if he’d had a single ounce of self-preservation left, he would have stopped going over to Monticello. It would have made sense - his mocks were over, he was just waiting for results, and besides, surely he’d had all the debating training he'd ever need. But maybe it was his father’s disapproval, maybe it was the hypnotic power of Jefferson's smirk (it made Philip feel like a vulnerable mouse about to be gobbled up by a snake), maybe he was just a glutton for punishment, but he kept going back.

 

Over the next couple of weeks, they talked more, debated less. Philip would go round in the evenings, after dinner with his parents, and he and Jefferson would sit and talk for a couple of hours. More often than not, often a glass of wine. It was dangerous, and intoxicating, and everything Philip wanted. 

 

“I haven't asked,” Jefferson said idly one evening. They were in their normal study, Jefferson’s legs still outrageously stretched out. Philip had relaxed somewhat from his first evening there, and was at least leaning back in the comfortable leather. “What are you planning to do at uni?”  


Philip took a sip of his wine, and then set it down. “I don't know. I'm not going this year, I’m having a gap year. Maybe two.”

 

“Mmmmm,” Jefferson said approvingly. “To make up your mind?”

 

“Yeah,” Philip said. “And, well, to get some more experience of the world. I don’t want to pick the wrong subject and waste my student loan, or maybe I’ll decide I don't want to go at all, I don't know.”

 

“Well, sounds very sensible to me,” Jefferson said, his gaze intent, stretching out his legs, impossibly, a little more. “And what does your esteemed father think of this?”

 

Philip gave him a look. He didn't know why he didn’t expect Jefferson to be so perceptive - he’d shown himself to be almost frighteningly so. “Well. He doesn't approve.”

 

Jefferson chuckled. It was a dark, exciting sound. “No. Well, that’s your father all over, it has to be said.”

 

Philip snorted. He wasn’t sure this was a good path to go down, opening up the cold anger in his heart to Thomas Jefferson, but Jefferson didn’t probe any further. They carried on talking though - about Philip’s plans, about Jefferson’s time at university, about how he’d got so far in his career, about the connections and the risks and the chance he’d taken. Jefferson was worryingly easy to talk to, and even more easy to listen to. Like Dad, his mouth ran a mile a minute, once you got him going. And it was even easier to listen when, like Philip, you were enjoying not only his words but also the twist of his thick lips, the flutter of his hands, the smile in his eyes.

 

***

 

Matters came to a head after Philip’s mock results came back. He’d done well - really well. He’d got full marks in his English Literature paper, and he came home on a high. He found himself reaching to text Jefferson (turned out the man did have a phone, after all), before he’d even let his parents know, and tried not to think too hard about that. His mother was delighted, of course, and his father briefly shone with praise and pride, before rushing back into his study. As so often happened, the glow of success faded from Phillip quickly, and he found himself sitting in his bedroom alone, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life. 

 

The text from Jefferson came through with a deceptively innocent chime.

 

_Well done. I told you, you’re an exceptional boy. Come round later for a celebratory drink? I’m buying. Unless you have other plans?_

 

Philip smiled, despite himself, and texted back in the affirmative. He found he hardly tasted his dinner, looking forward to the evening ahead, and quickly told his mother than he was popping out with friends to celebrate before he dashed upstairs to change into his best tight jeans and shirt (don’t think about it, don’t think about it), and then out into the dark winter night.

 

Jefferson was actually holding a bottle of wine when he opened the door. “Come in, come in, congratulations are in order, my little Hamilton.”

 

Philip beamed despite the stupid nickname, stepping over the threshold into Jefferson’s warm, tight hug. “Thanks.”

 

“I knew you could do it,” Jefferson said, clapping him on the back ostentatiously. He kept that long, warm arm over Philip’s shoulder as they walked down the corridor, and as he shoved open the door to the study. “You’re so fucking bright, ‘scuse my language. Ugh, your father must be insufferably proud.”

 

Philip gave a funny non-committal “hmmm” and Jefferson spun to face him. “What? He’s not proud?!”

 

“Well, yeah, he is,” Philip said, sinking into his familiar chair and taking the proffered glass of wine. “But, well, he, erm, just rushes off back to his writing. It feels like I only get about five minutes of the insufferable pride, ha.”

 

“Well, / am proud of you,” Jefferson declared, leaning forward into Philip’s space. His skin smelled good. The whole of him smelled good, and Philip wasn’t even drunk at all yet; it was far too early for these kind of thoughts. “Cheers.”

 

“Cheers,” Philip said weakly, raising his glass. They chinked glasses, and then started talking again, about Philip’s mocks, about how the other people in his year had done, and then, against Philip’s better judgement, about how he just wished his father would notice him. He knew this was a terribly bad idea, but hey, he was full of bad ideas anyway. He liked to think that this was at least slightly safer than getting shitfaced in a nightclub and letting some brutish rugby player push him on to his knees in a seedy dorm room, but really he wasn’t fooling even himself. This was far more risky.

 

At some point Jefferson got up and started waxing rhapsodic about some obscure text on a higher shelf in the study, and Philip got up and stood beside him so Jefferson could wrap that possessive arm back around his shoulder and point it out. And then the nearest thing to sit on was the enormous leather sofa, and Philip’s legs were already wobbly from the heroic amount of wine he’d had, so he sat next to Jefferson, feeling as if he were in some strange dream. Jefferson’s face was very close and his hair kept catching Philip in the face and making him laugh, and one of his big warm hands was on Philip’s knee (when did that get there?). 

 

“He just doesn’t listen!” Philip declared. “He just talks and talks and talks and talks about stupid _shit_ , but he… He never stops and listens, to Mum or, or, to any of us! He only listens to fucking Washington, he’s just work, work, work.”

 

Jefferson nodded sagely, his afro bouncing. “He’s always been that way. Insufferable, self-centered little twat.”

 

Philip giggled, and nodded, and tried not to stare at Jefferson’s mouth, stained dark with wine. 

 

“And how’s your mother, after… everything?” Jefferson asked tactfully. 

 

Philip shrugged. “She’s better now than she was. But she’s always taking care of him, you know? I feel like he should take care of her sometimes, what with all he’s done?”

 

Jefferson nodded again, leaned back with his arms behind his head. “He should take care of all of you. Snivelling child.”

 

Philip was suddenly seized with a terrible, reckless, stupid bravery. “Well, you take care of me,” he said, and fluttered his eyelashes coquettishly. 

 

Jefferson blinked lazily, and gave a devastatingly handsome smile. His teeth were very white. “Hmmmm, I try my best.”

 

Philip didn’t know what to say next. He wanted to say something else, do something else, inspire another reaction, but he didn’t know what to do. He set his wine glass down. 

 

“I wish you would… more,” he said clumsily.

 

Jefferson smirked at him, and his face was beautiful and frustrating and smug. “How do you mean, little Hamilton?”

 

“Don’t, don’t call me that,” Philip stumbled, though he wasn’t really angry, he just needed to hear Jefferson’s ridiculous accent wrapped around his name again. 

 

Jefferson feigned innocence for a moment. “What? Oh.” This time the smile had even more teeth than before. Philip couldn’t take his eyes off it. His blood was roaring in his ears, his heart was racing. He felt far too hot. “How do you mean, Philip?”

 

“Like this,” Philip said, and leaned over and took that sharp, bearded jawline in his hands and kissed desperately at that full, crafty mouth. For a moment, for a cold moment, Jefferson didn’t respond, and Philip feared that he was about to behave as a good man should - push Philip away, express his disgust, tell him to go home, tell him he didn’t think about him that way.

 

But Jefferson rapidly proved that he was not a good man. 

 

Those long fingers came round to tangle in Philip’s hair, and then Jefferson was kissing back, gentle at first, and then increasingly demanding, as Philip melted like butter. He felt like he was drowning, gladly, embracing the dark fear of it, powerless to resist. 

 

He shifted up into Jefferson’s lap, so he could sit astride him. Jefferson gave a deep hum of approval, and then shifted his head to kiss along Philip’s neck. His fingers toyed with Philip’s hair, pulling ever so slightly, in a way that made Philip groan helplessly. Philip was fighting the urge not to grind down into his lap, not to show how desperate he was for this, but he was fighting a losing battle. 

 

After another perfect second, however, Jefferson withdrew from the kiss, and when Philip tried to follow him, gave a meaningful tug on his hair. They broke apart, Philip gasping for breath, lips swollen and greedy for more.

 

“You’re drunk,” Jefferson said, and his voice sounded more like a growl.

 

Philip nodded, unable to deny it.

 

“We shouldn’t do this.” 

 

“No!” Philip objected immediately, reaching for Jefferson’s face again, only to be batted away. “Please, I know I’m young, I know, I know, but I know what I want, and I…”

 

“Shh,” Jefferson said, not unkindly. “Kid, I’m no saint. Far from it. But there are some lines that are too morally dubious for even me to cross. Sleeping with my enemy’s vulnerable teenage son is… well, one thing. Sleeping with him when he’s drunk is another.”

 

“You mean…?” Philip said, trying to ignore the word ‘vulnerable’ in his ridiculous hope. 

 

“Another time, maybe,” Jefferson conceded, and ran a possessive hand through Philip’s hair again. “Because really, you are just too pretty to resist. I bet you’re eager to please as well, hmmm?”

 

Philip nodded fervently. “Yes, sir, yes, I’ll do anything.”

 

Jefferson’s dark eyes glowed like hot coals. “Good. We’ll have to discuss this at another time. I feel like it could be a very pleasing avenue for the both of us.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Philip breathed, and was rewarded with one of Jefferson’s large fingers running across his lip. He had no idea why he’d slipped back into calling the man ‘sir’ - he hadn’t done that since he’d first started coming for tutoring, but right now it naturally came to his mind, and it seemed shamefully _right_.

 

“You’re welcome,” Jefferson breathed. “Ordinarily, I’d reward you, but I think we’ve established that’s not a very good idea for this evening.”

 

He tipped Philip off his lap, so he sprawled out on the sofa instead, looking stupidly up at Jefferson. ‘Though goddamn, you are delicious. But no, sometimes it is best to resist temptation, just for a little bit.”

 

Philip whined in complaint. 

 

“Nah, you’re not going to charm me that easily,” Jefferson said. “Come up. Get up. You can stay in the spare room tonight. I’m not making you walk home like this - besides, anyone with a brain would see what you’d been up to. Text your mother, tell her you’re staying over at a friend’s.”

 

Philip blindly obeyed, and then followed Jefferson upstairs to a ‘small’ spare room that was much bigger than his room at home. Now the adrenaline rush from his stupid seduction attempt had faded, he was exhausted. He let Jefferson pull his shirt and trousers off him (in an astoundingly non-sexual way), vaguely listened to him mutter something about putting them in the washing machine, and then let himself be bundled beneath the duvet. He fell asleep before Jefferson even turned the lights off. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting somewhere... Many thanks for the kudos, they are much appreciated, and please keep the comments coming, I need to know I'm not alone in this world of sin :) x


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Philip awoke with a headache that wasn’t as bad as he might have feared, and the odd sensation that he’d done something really, really bad.

 

He sat up in the strange bed, threw the covers off, and looked around the room for a second. Where the fuck was he? He looked down at himself. Where the fuck were his clothes? He glanced towards the bedside table and picked up the glass of water there. He was half-way through downing it when he spotted the note, and almost choked. 

 

Oh fuck. He was in Jefferson’s house. In Jefferson’s spare room. Because he’d tried to snog Jefferson.

 

Trying not to freak out, he read the note. The writing was so small and ostentatiously curly as to be almost illegible. 

 

_Good morning. Don’t panic, I know what you Hamiltons are like. There’s a robe on the door, meet me downstairs for breakfast. Painkillers are in the bathroom cabinet if you need them (door to your right)._

 

Philip got up, wrapped himself in the ridiculously opulent dressing gown, nipped to the loo, and then stumbled downstairs. He could hear the sounds of someone turning the pages of a newspaper in the kitchen, and poked his head round the door nervously to see Jefferson. He was sitting nursing a cup of coffee and reading the paper, wearing a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and a robe very similar to Philip’s own.

 

“Good morning, young Hamilton,” he said, glancing up over his glasses and smiling. Philip was slightly speechless, both at the sight of this strange domestic Jefferson, and, moreover, by the glasses. 

 

“Morning. I thought we were past that.”

 

“Hmmm, we _might_ be past ‘little’,” Jefferson teased. “But we’re definitely not past ‘young’. Coffee?”

 

“Yes please.”

 

Jefferson gestured for him to sit down as he went across to the coffee machine. Philip was glad he’d offered - he didn’t know how to work the wretched thing himself. He sat and try to read Jefferson’s paper upside-down and wondered just how much of a fool he’d made of himself last night.

 

“So,” Jefferson said, passing him the cup and going to open one of the other kitchen cupboards. “No time like the present. What do you remember about yesterday?”

 

Philip winced, and took a sip of scalding coffee that he immediately regretted. “Ow. Erm, bits and pieces?”

 

“Mmmm?” Jefferson said, in a slightly mocking tone, coming to sit back down at the table with a jar of Marmite. 

 

Philip took a deep breath. “I… I remember talking about my dad, and I remember… kissing you. And you saying that we weren’t going to do anything while I was drunk.”

 

“Oh, not half bad, then,” Jefferson said appraisingly. “I must say, I feared you were further gone. So?”

 

“So?” Philip asked helplessly. 

 

“How much of that do you regret?” Jefferson was peering at him all too wisely over the top of his glasses.

 

Philip winced again and stared down at his bare toes instead. “I… I don’t know. If I remembered that right, and you said that we could … do something, just not then, then I guess I don’t regret it too much.”

 

“Something?” Jefferson said innocently. “You were much braver when you were drunk.”

 

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a hazard,” Philip said, and Jefferson chuckled, not unkindly.

 

“Well, if you really don’t regret it, I suppose we should have that discussion at some point,” Jefferson said. Philip had just glanced up to notice that he was eating the Marmite straight out of the jar with a spoon, and averted his eyes in horror. 

 

“Discussion?”

 

“Yeah, we’re adults. I wanna know that we’re on the same page. I don’t mean now, this second, I mean… Think about it. Make a list or whatever. We’ve got time. I don’t want to fuck you up more than I can help.”

 

“A list?” Philip said faintly. 

 

Jefferson smirked. “Yeah. What you’re into, what you’re not. What you’ve done before. If anything.”

 

“I- I’ve done things before!” Philip said indignantly, and Jefferson laughed again. 

 

“Good. Well, I look forward to seeing your list, then. Now, what do you want for breakfast?”

 

Jefferson gently kicked him out of the house about eleven, and Philip wandered home in his freshly laundered clothes, his head spinning. The rest of the day he spent trying to act normally around his parents and siblings, without being able to get Jefferson out of his head the entire time. And then that night he went to bed early and tried to work on his list. Obviously physically writing stuff down was far too embarrassing, not to mention incriminating, so he just tried to think about it instead, which was really barely any better.

 

Two days later, Jefferson sent him a text which merely read, _You finished thinking yet?_

 

Philip texted back. _Yes._

 

_Good. Mine, Friday, six? I’ll wine and dine you._

 

Philip grinned and typed back, _OK, sounds good to me. Maybe less of the wine this time though._

 

His mother definitely noticed that he was going out wearing his best clothes on Friday night. Luckily he’d pre-packed his overnight bag, smuggled it out to school in the morning (his bus left early, so his parents generally weren’t up, or at least not awake enough to notice), and then left it tucked behind the little bike shed in the front garden for easy access later.

 

“Off anywhere nice?” she asked, eyebrows raised. Philip knew what she was thinking - a date?

 

“Nah, not really. Going to the cinema, then out to dinner.”

 

“What are you going to see?”

 

“Guardians of the Galaxy,” Philip lied smoothly. He’d found it illegally online a week ago, so he could answer any questions on the plot if she asked. 

 

“Oh, nice. Does Ange want to go with you?”

 

Philip’s heart hammered. “Nah, she’s busy.”

 

“All right. Have a nice time.”

 

“Oh, I might stay late at George’s,” Philip said, on his way out of the door. “But I’ll text you, yeah?”

 

His mum smiled. “No problem. Thanks for letting me know. You’re a good boy.” 

 

She ruffled his hair, and Phillip muttered, “Mum,” in mock-embarrassment. Nonetheless, it gave him a pang. She wouldn’t call him that if she knew the truth - he had next to no friends and was off for a random hook-up with _Thomas Jefferson_. 

 

Despite Philip’s comment about less wine, Jefferson opened the door with glass in hand. “You might need less, I think I need more,” he said when Philip pointed it out. 

 

They went to sit in the study as normal. Philip was burning with anticipation and nervousness and lust. Jefferson seemed much the same as usual - cocky, casual, unfairly attractive, despite his twenty years on Phillip. 

 

“So,” Jefferson said, sprawling in his usual chair. “Dinner’s in the oven, we’ve got time for a bit of a talk first. What have you been thinking?”

 

“Seems a bit unfair,” Philip pointed out. “What about you?”

 

“Ah, ah,” Jefferson said, wagging his finger like Philip was a recalcitrant pupil. “You first. I’ll spill later, don’t you worry.”

 

“OK,” Philip said, regretting he hadn’t got a glass of wine himself now. “Well. I… I want to sleep with you. That is, have sex. I’m not too fussy about the how of it - just hands, oral, anal, it’s fine. It’ll all be fine, with you.”

 

He swallowed, and Jefferson gave a smug purr. He was sitting forward in his chair now, his legs spread (his feet actually on the ground like a normal person for once), staring at Philip as if he wanted to eat him up.

 

“I, er, I don’t mind topping or bottoming.” Philip knew his face must be scarlet by now, but he persevered. “And I’m not looking for anything else. That is, like, a relationship. Just sex. And obviously with condoms.”

 

Jefferson gave him a slow clap, which seemed bizarrely genuine, though clearly from anyone else it would be taking the piss. “Well, you are a good boy. Your daddy would be proud.”

 

Philip thought of saying ‘don’t bring my dad into this,’ but something about the way Jefferson said ‘daddy’ made his stomach clench in a very interesting way. 

 

“All right then,” Jefferson said, leaning back in the chair a little again. “Fair enough, you’ve made your point, and well. You’re up for most things. However.” He clicked his tongue thoughtly. “I am prone to some slightly… exotic tastes in the bedroom.”

 

“Oh,” Philip said, his mouth dry. 

 

“Hmmmm. No pressure, though, obviously. I’ve no doubt you’ll be great fun even if we have the most vanilla sex known to man.”

 

“I mean, you are old enough to be my dad,” Philip burst out. “It’s not like it’s going to be that normal.”

 

Jefferson grinned again. Now it was reminding Phillip of a shark. There was something about that darkness in his eyes. “Well, you’re spot on there. But that’s not exactly what I meant. Do you have any experience with BDSM? The kink scene at all, really?”

 

Philip let out a small strangled noise that could be called a squeak. “Er, not really.” He coughed. “I like to be… erm, manhandled a bit. But that’s not really the same.”

 

“It’s a good start though,” Jefferson said, with that same hungry smile. “And you’re smart not to think that’s all it involves. Hmmmm.” He paused, considering a moment. “How about I give you my list, and you let me know if any of it interests you, or doesn’t interest you?”

 

“OK,” Philip said, his voice small. He didn’t know whether Jefferson meant a physical list, or a verbal one, and he didn’t know which would be worse. 

 

Jefferson beamed. “All right then.” He got up and went across to one of the small drawers in his desk. “Here.” He pulled out a piece of paper triumphantly. “Take a look. Like I say, no pressure. If I come back and there are crosses next to all of them, I won’t be disappointed. I’d only be disappointed if you forced yourself to do something you weren’t into. Though feel free to put a question mark or something if you might be interested. No harm in experimenting.”

 

Philip took the list, his hand clammy. He didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified that this kind of thing seemed to imply that this would be significantly more than a one-off experience. 

 

“Good. I’ll leave you to it, I need to put the salad together. I’ll call you through when it’s done, or just shout if you need me.”

 

With that, Jefferson waltzed out of the study, closing the door behind him. It took Philip several seconds to gather himself enough to even look at the list. And fucking hell, it was a long list. 

 

He worked down it bit by bit. The stuff at the top was reasonably normal sex stuff, all of which he’d tried before, and all of which he was up for. He was a little intimidated by the thought of bottoming for Jefferson (the guy wore too tight trousers and spent too much time with his legs spread to leave much to the imagination), but not as much as he was terribly turned on. 

 

Then after a while, the items took a turn for the mildly unusual. There was “rough play - e.g. grabbing hair, clothes, light slapping, pushing, light restraint”. Philip ticked it, crossing and uncrossing his legs self-consciously, not sure whether Jefferson would want him to encourage or suppress his growing erection. What was he supposed to do though? The image of Jefferson pushing him up against a wall and having his way with him, oh fuck.

 

Then after a while there was “bondage” (tick), “spanking” (tick), “painplay” (question mark), breathplay (tick, once Phillip had googled it surreptitiously on his phone), edging (question mark), water sports (question mark, though that made his face burn ruby-red again). 

 

By the end of the list he had had to cross a couple of them (caning, fisting, bloodplay), and was shifting very uncomfortably in his seat. He felt dizzy with arousal. 

 

He’d barely got to the end when Jefferson called that dinner was ready, and he had to stand up and walk on slightly wobbly legs through to the kitchen.

 

“Hope you don’t mind, I don’t normally sort out the whole dining room if I only have one guest,” Jefferson began, and then saw the state of Philip and gave a warm, if slightly cruel laugh. “Oh poor baby, you look a little flustered. Here, gimme that.”

 

He snatched the list out of Philip’s hands before Philip could protest, and scanned it in seconds. “Oh my goodness.” His eyes widened, and Philip’s legs trembled, his heart hammering. “Oh, well you _are_ a naughty boy.”

 

He lowered it slowly and stared at Philip over the top of it. Philip squirmed helplessly. He knew his face must be glowing red, his erection was uncomfortably evident (and just plain uncomfortable), and he felt conflicted with excitement and humiliation. 

 

“Well, _maybe_ the lasagne can wait a few minutes,” Jefferson said, and backed him up against the kitchen counter before he could make any move. “Mmmm.” He seemed to be appreciating the height difference between them, and Philip couldn’t deny that he was doing the same thing. Jefferson seemed very tall and broad compared to Philip, and he had no problem shoving him about. “Oh little Hamilton. Do you mind if I…?”

 

His hand began at Philip’s shoulder, and curved down his side until it brushed his hip.

 

“Please,” Philip murmured breathlessly. “Please, sir…”

 

“Oh, you ask so nicely and we haven’t even _started_ ,” Jefferson said gleefully. “You are good.”

 

With his other hand, he tilted Philip’s chin up, so Philip was forced to make eye contact with him. Jefferson’s golden eyes were nearly obscured by his dilated pupils, and his face was so close that Philip struggled to focus on it. “Now, I don’t suppose a baby like you has ever had a safeword?” he whispered. 

 

Philip shook his head no. He was glad Jefferson had him pinned to the kitchen cupboard, because otherwise he felt like his legs might crumple beneath him. 

 

“Good,” Jefferson said, and moved a curl off his forehead. “But you’ll need one now, hmmm?”

 

“I…” Philip stuttered. 

 

“Red is normally a good one for beginners,” Jefferson said idly, now twisting the curl between his fingers. “Red means stop, and we stop, completely. Amber or orange if you want me to slow down, green if you’re good. Like traffic lights, hmmm?”

 

Philip nodded. 

 

“Say it. What do you say if you want me to stop?”

 

“Red,” Philip croaked, his throat dry. 

 

“Good.” Jefferson rewarded him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, surprisingly gentle. “And how are you feeling now?”

 

“Green,” Philip whispered. 

 

“Oh, you are a natural,” Jefferson murmured, kissing him again, and Philip thought he was going to explode with the praise. 

 

“Please,” he whimpered again. 

 

“Hmmmm,” Jefferson said. “Now, an important question.” He leant in very close, his beard brushing Philip’s ear. His breath was hot and damp, his voice very low. “How many times can you come in one evening? Because I don’t want the fun to be over too soon.”

 

Philip’s leg twitched. “Erm.” His voice was very high suddenly. “At least twice, probably three times if…”

 

He could feel Jefferson’s smile against his skin. “Say no more. You good with this?”

 

He nodded, and Jefferson’s hand stroked hard, down to the waistband of his jeans, and then unzipped them (a huff of amusement, “Christ these are tight”), and then…

 

Philip came embarrassingly quickly, but he supposed that was rather the point. Jefferson gave a very satisfied hum/moan as Philip trembled in his arms, and kissed at his jawline through it. Philip turned his head a little, trying to hide his flushed face, but Jefferson forced him to keep it in position. “No no no, little Hamilton, I want to _see_ you.”

 

Philip whimpered again, and met Jefferson’s eyes, and gave one final shudder. Jefferson smirked, and pulled out a fucking _handkerchief_ from somewhere and wiped the mess off his hand in a flash. “Now, this lasagne won’t wait forever.”

 

Philip gave a giddy half-laugh, and grabbed on to the worktop for support as Jefferson moved away from him. “Now, go and wash up. I expect you back here in two minutes.”

 

When Philip looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, he looked a complete mess. His face was red and sweaty, his curls were awry, he even looked a bit tear-stained. He wiped at his face, fruitlessly. His freckles still showed up dark, despite his pink cheeks.

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. 

 

_Heard you were off out to the cinema. Have a good evening. dad x_

 

He stowed it away again, feeling sick and guilty. 

 

“Dinner!” Jefferson called, and Philip gave himself one final look in the mirror before he followed his voice back to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to think of what the modern-day British equivalent of "Jefferson eating macaroni and cheese while everyone else is horrified" would be. The answer I came up with was eating Marmite with a spoon, sorry to everyone for that mental image. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner was very nice. What wasn’t nice was the fact that firstly, Jefferson would only let him have half a glass of wine, and secondly, that he kept playing footsie with him under the table, much to Philip’s initial amusement and then indignation. Jefferson seemed to delight in making him as hot and bothered as was humanly possible, which really wasn’t hard to begin with. 

 

His phone didn’t buzz again. 

 

Once dinner was over, Jefferson fairly swept him upstairs (“don’t worry about the plates, I’ll stick them in the dishwasher in the morning”). Philip didn’t know whether he’d ever been so scared or so excited in his whole life.

 

“D-don’t put any marks on me,” he whispered feebly, as Jefferson nosed possessively into his neck again. They were on the landing, and Philip was struggling not to be pressed back into what looked like a very impressive Jefferson family portrait. “M-my dad will see…”

 

Jefferson chuckled darkly, and drew back a little so he could stare into Philip’s face and paralyse him with his smouldering gaze. “Oh, imagine his face. Mustn’t have that, must we?” He kissed Philip roughly on the lips and then pulled away properly, leaving Philip gasping and bereft. “Fancy a shower?”

 

“Erm,” Philip said eloquently, staring up into Jefferson’s face stupidly. 

 

“I have a wetroom,” Jefferson said, with a gleam in his eye.

 

“Oh,” Philip said, all the breath leaving his lungs in a rush. “A shower with you? Yes, OK, yes, if you…”

 

“Good,” Jefferson said darkly, and then started unbuttoning Philip’s shirt with frightening efficiency. Philip was a little slower on the uptake but returned the favour as quickly as he could. Jefferson chuckled again as Philip managed to rip off the first layer, only to find another one beneath. “Keep trying, kid.”

 

They moved down the corridor, Jefferson walking backwards with unerring confidence, pulling Philip after him. They kicked off their trousers clumsily as they went. Jefferson’s thighs were firm and thickly corded with muscle (he must have a home gym hidden somewhere around this place). When he finally deigned to remove his shirt, his torso was much the same. Philip ran his hands over it, slightly wonderingly, much to Jefferson’s amusement. And his boxer briefs, Jesus, Philip was almost afraid to take them off. 

 

Jefferson let them both keep their underwear and opened the door to the wetroom. It was more like a sauna, really, with wood panelling, a bench (one half of which was lined with a dazzling array of toiletries), and an absolutely enormous shower head. 

 

Jefferson made a beeline for the shower, padding with ease across the dark tiled floor. He switched the shower on and was almost immediately drenched, the water pouring in a roaring sheet down on to his hair and face. He shook his head, blinking the water out of his eyes, and smirked at the gawping Philip. 

 

“Come here,” he said, with an accompanying beckon of his finger. Philip could barely hear him over the noise of the water. 

 

As Philip stepped closer, Jefferson effortlessly slid out of his boxers, and yup, the rumours and the tight trousers had not been lying. His dick was intimidatingly large, dark even against the deep brown of his thighs, and showing a significant interest in proceedings. Philip was so distracted that he walked directly into the path of the shower jet, and would have slipped over if Jefferson hadn’t made a grab for him.

 

“Silly boy,” Jefferson said affectionately. “Now, can I take these off?”

 

His hands slid down to Philip’s briefs, inquisitive but gentle, and Philip nodded mutely. His now sopping shorts were removed without ceremony, and now Jefferson’s big hands were sliding _all over him_ , and God he was probably going to die from lack of blood flow to his brain or from hitting his head on this stupid slippery floor when he collapsed under the pressure of the hot pummelling shower, but at least he’d die happy.

 

Despite the fact that they were both entirely naked for the first time together, the shower was actually a fairly chaste experience. Jefferson yelled over the noise of the water that shower sex tended to be even more slippery and complicated than it looked, and they were better off getting back to the bedroom. That didn’t stop him apparently thoroughly enjoying soaping up Philip’s lithe body though, and nor did it prevent Philip from returning the favour avidly. He had been a little worried that Jefferson’s body might show his age slightly, but it certainly didn’t in any way that was unappealing. He was certainly far fitter than Philip was. 

 

Jefferson seemed to notice his appreciation, but quickly steered them out of the wet room again before things got too heated. He seemed to have other ideas on the agenda for the evening. 

 

“So,” Jefferson said, when they were both wrapped in huge towels and lounging on Jefferson’s excessively large bed (which was wedged in a room that couldn't seem to decide whether it was a bedroom or an office, weird). “What do you fancy doing?”

 

Philip snorted and towelled at his hair. “I thought you were going to be telling me that.”

 

Jefferson shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t mind. I gave you my list, though. You know I’m down for anything on there. There must have been some things that really got you going, you were a wreck when you came in the kitchen.”

 

Philip didn’t deny it, but he wasn’t sure he had the confidence to give voice to those things. Jefferson seemed to sense his reticence.

 

“All right then. Well, you don’t have any aversion to me talking dirty now, do you?”

 

Philip shook his head, pretending to focus on his hair and fiercely ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks.

 

“Well, in that case, I’ll just walk you through some of the things on the list, and you can let me know when I’ve hit a winner, OK?”

 

“OK,” Philip whispered.

 

“Good. All right then.” Jefferson grinned and stretched his arms above his head, cracking his joints. “Now, let’s start with the basics. I’ve seen you looking, and well, that pretty mouth has been giving me some ideas. How would you like to suck my dick?”

 

“Yes,” Philip blurted out, before he could stop himself, because he’d thought of little else since Jefferson first took his underwear off. “Yes, please.”

 

Jefferson looked very smug indeed. “Excellent. And then maybe, if you’re very, very good, I’ll fuck you. Do you think you’d be able to take me?”

 

Philip took a breath and nodded. “I’ve been… Erm… Sometimes I…” He wrinkled his nose in embarrassment. “I’ve been… practicing. Obviously I’ve bottomed before, but it’s been a while, and I thought…”

 

“Oh really?” Jefferson said, one eyebrow raised, and Philip nodded again. “Oh, that’s very good. Now, anything else, or is that enough to be getting on with? Remember, you can always give me one of your colours if we want us to change tack a little bit, OK?”

 

“Could you…?” Philip’s throat dried up, and he had to try again. Somehow it was marginally easier to say these things once the spectre of Jefferson’s speech was already hanging in the air between them. “Could you tie me up? Just a little bit? I’d like to try.”

 

“Oh sugar, I thought you’d never ask,” Jefferson said, clearly delighted, and kissed him deeply. Philip leaned into it eagerly. “Now, one more thing,” Jefferson murmured against his mouth. 

 

“What?” Philip said, not knowing whether to be excited or nervous. 

 

“Now, forgive me if I’m going in a bit too heavy,” Jefferson said, his voice a low growl, and Philip’s stomach swooped. “But there’s one more that I’m almost certain you’re going to be _very_ interested in.” 

 

“Mmmm?” Philip asked, trying to look innocent.

 

“How about you call me ‘daddy’?”

 

The rush of arousal that swamped Philip felt like a physical blow, and Jefferson chuckled at his reaction. 

 

“I’m guessing that’s a yes. Well, we can throw that in when we’re playing if you feel like it, all right? Now, what would you like me to call you? Baby? Sugar? My good little boy?”

 

“Any of those,” Philip managed to choke out, and Jefferson laughed yet again.

 

“All right then. I’ll go get some bits. Stay here. Keeping drying your hair off, don’t want you getting cold. Be back in a moment.”

 

Jefferson jumped up and left, and Philip had a few moments lying catching his breath on his bed, wondering what on earth he’d gotten himself into. It was only a few minutes, if that, however, when Jefferson returned, holding a dark length of thin rope.

 

“Here you go. Now.” Jefferson licked his lips in anticipation. “How about we start with you kneeling?”

 

Philip was only too happy to obey, and Jefferson seemed very pleased to see him on his knees, practically purring with approval and immediately running a hand through his damp hair. “Delicious. Now how about we…”

 

He twisted the rope around Philip’s hands in a quick, practiced motion, so they were bound behind him. “There. That all right, not too tight?”

 

Phillip nodded. “N-no, they’re good.”

 

“You sure? Good. Now, wait there a moment for me.”

 

Jefferson arranged himself in his dark leather desk chair, back tall and proud and his legs spread, and then beckoned Philip to come over. Philip shuffled to him, clumsy without his arms to balance him, until his head was level with Jefferson’s thigh, and Jefferson could put a hand down easily to pet his hair.

 

“Oh, that’s very good, love,” Jefferson said warmly, and Philip whimpered a little at the praise. “Now, just stay there a minute, will you?”

 

Philip waited. And waited. He’d been hard since the shower, and his erection showed no sign of abating, even now as he just sat and stared at Jefferson’s leg. Jefferson’s hand in his hair was a welcome distraction though - it was a nice, soothing stroke, until he pulled a little, making Philip groan a little with pleasure and come back to concentration.

 

After what seemed like ages, but was probably only a few minutes, Jefferson stirred and reached into one of the drawers in his desk. He pulled out a condom and applied it on himself with ease. Philip’s stomach flipped with the knowledge of what was about to happen. 

 

“Now, how would you like to suck daddy’s dick?” Jefferson said politely. It was the best and filthiest thing Philip had ever heard, and he hastened to obey. It was difficult with his hands bound, but Jefferson was still effusive with his praise (“that _mouth_ , holy shit, baby, mmmm, yes”), and he could use his hold on Philip’s hair to control the speed as he wished. He was careful not to choke Philip though (unlike some of the guys he’d been with) - not that Philip felt he would have minded. Even though Jefferson was so clearly in control, Philip liked being able to see his face flush, feel his cock thicken still more in his mouth, feel those iron thighs trembling, see his mouth fall open a little. 

 

“Enough,” Jefferson said eventually, pulling Philip off his cock, and panting for breath. “Oh darling, you are so good at that.” He kissed him deeply, and groaned a little. “So very good. Normally I’d tease for longer, but really, you’re much too precious. I’m going to spoil you.”

 

He pulled Philip up to his feet (his knees had got a bit sore and numb, kneeling down), and pushed him unceremoniously towards the bed. Philip stumbled, fell awkwardly, face down, and then Jefferson was behind him, lifting his head up by the hair, albeit gently. 

 

“All right? It’s hard to hear you when you’ve got my dick in your mouth. What colour?”

 

“Green,” Philip murmured. “Please, green, sir, please touch me, please…”

 

“Oh, there’ll be time enough for that,” Jefferson said, and ran a hand over Philip’s arse appreciatively. Philip jumped in surprise. 

 

“Did you say you’d be interested in spanking?” Jefferson said idly, as though they were just making casual conversation. 

 

“Y-yes,” Philip said.

 

“And would you be interested right now?”

 

“Y-yes, please, s…” 

 

Jefferson smacked him before the words were out of his mouth - not hard, but enough to make Philip jump and squeal. It made Jefferson give yet another dark chuckle. “Oh baby, but you are _so_ sensitive. How about another?”

 

This one was a fraction harder, but it was more a sharp sting than anything that would ache in the morning. Philip still squirmed beneath his hand, painfully hard. 

 

“Got anything to say, baby?”

 

“P-please,” Philip managed. He wanted to say ‘daddy’, wanted to make Jefferson proud, wanted to embrace the dirtiness of it, but he didn’t quite dare. “Can you touch me, please, sir, I’ll be good, I promise.”

 

“I know, I know you will,” Jefferson said gently, and rolled him over on to his back with one last regretful knead of Philip’s bum. “Sorry, that little arse was just too irresistible. I’ll look after you too, sugar, don’t worry.”

 

He untied Philip’s arms, and then rearranged them, so they were held up and behind him, loosely tethered to the headboard. And then he lay himself over Philip’s body, so Philip could feel every last hard, hot, powerful inch of him, and shudder in surrender and arousal. Jefferson's mouth was hard and demanding, and Philip could only strain upwards for more attention from it.

 

“Right, arse up, darling,” Jefferson said curtly, and as Philip obeyed, he shoved a pillow underneath his hips. “I want to see you while I fuck you, any complaints?”

 

Philip shook his head, and then he whined fiercely as Jefferson began to examine his arsehole. He lifted his legs up wantonly to facilitate the inspection, and Jefferson hummed his thanks. He felt like the shame was being drained out of him - he didn’t have any embarrassment now, he just _wanted_ , wanted Jefferson to fuck him, to hit him, to _own_ him…

 

Jefferson was surprisingly gentle. He had a discreet bottle of lube that he used with abandon before he even got close to penetrating Philip, and then for the longest time he just worked a single finger inside, even leaving it there as he talked, and reached up with the other hand to tickle at Philip’s stomach. Philip was almost sobbing in desperation by the time he got the second finger in. Jefferson’s fingers were big, and they were devilishly close to his prostate, and they felt so _good_ but it wasn’t quite enough.

 

“Was there something you wanted, baby?” Jefferson asked innocently, after what felt like hours of slow, painstaking prep.

 

Philip tried to wipe his tears on to his shoulder, to little avail. “Please, sir, _please_ , fuck me, please, I need to come, please…”

 

“Hmmmmm.” Jefferson twitched his fingers within him, as if in thought, and Philip had to muffle his howl by biting into his shoulder. “Well, maybe you’re nearly ready, let’s see…”

 

He removed his _three_ fingers now, and manoeuvred his cock into position. Philip was gasping with relief, but then he stopped. 

 

“I’m not sure,” Jefferson said, pushing his dick forward a fraction of an inch to tease at Philip’s opening, and then back again. “Are you ready, do you think?”

 

“Y-yes, please, I’m ready, please, I can’t…” Philip’s cock was so hard it was painful, and he was frankly shocked that he hadn’t come already.

 

Jefferson moved again, the terribly tickling back-and-forth slide. “I don’t know, we should play it safe, I wouldn’t want to hurt you, Philip.”

 

The use of his name just about pushed Philip over the edge. “Please, sir, I’ll do anything, please, oh, please…”

 

Jefferson leaned over him still closer. His eyes were sharp and calculating and full of darkness. “Anything? Didn’t you have something else you were going to call me, darling?”

 

Philip broke. “Daddy, please, oh, please, please do it, I can’t stand it, I’ve been so good… D-daddy…”

 

Jefferson finally fucked into him properly, and all Philip’s attempts at language failed him. His mouth gaped open as Jefferson’s cock pushed deep inside, without resistance. It felt like he was being filled up to the brim, almost too full, and the thought and the contact with his prostrate would have made him come on the spot, if one of Jefferson’s irritating, beautiful, huge hands hadn’t closed around the base of his cock. Philip gave a strangled moan of defeat.

 

“Oh, no, no, not yet. I haven’t heard nearly enough from you yet. Besides, you’re far too pretty a sight to waste.”

 

Jefferson repeated the movement, the long in-and-out, and Philip thought he would go mad. He was babbling all sorts of nonsense - “Daddy, please, thank you, thank you, oh God, it’s too much, it’s too much, Daddy, please keep going”, and Jefferson seemed to love every moment. 

 

“Oh darling,” Jefferson said (Jesus, he was such a talker in bed). Philip was at least gratified that he seemed slightly out of breath. “I’m going to fuck you on every surface in the house, I swear. This is just too delicious. You’re so… tight.” He gave a groan, and fucked in again, and Philip could feel the tension in him. Then he saw Jefferson actually glance down to see where the two of them were joined, and give a shudder at the sight. “Oh… I’m going to have you again, and again, and again, until you can hardly walk, until everyone knows what you’ve been up to. Who would’ve thought you’d be such a… such a slut.”

 

Philip whimpered at the word, but he was too far gone to object. Jefferson seemed to pay a little more attention to him again suddenly, and leaned in close. “Can I fuck you after you’ve come, or do you get too sensitive?”

 

Philip groaned, blinked the tears from his eyes as he tried to focus. His whole body was being rocked by the force of Jefferson’s thrusts; his voice came out in gasps. “I… I… I am sensitive, but you can, you can do it, sometimes I come again, I…”

 

Jefferson gave an evil, sharp-toothed smile. “All right then. I’ll let you come, if you ask nicely.”

 

Philip could have cried. “Please, sir, Mr. Jefferson, please, Daddy, please, please, let me come, I need… Please, Daddy, I’m begging you, you, I…”

 

Jefferson finally obliged him, and Philip came in long, shaking shudders, all over Jefferson's hand and his own belly. Jefferson, true to his word, continued fucking him, and after a couple of moments of embarrassing eye-rolling come-down, Philip managed to focus on his face again. His lithe dark body was shining with sweat, and his face was intent and desperate. It was intoxicating, to be able to see him like this. When he finally came with a groan and a shudder Philip was suddenly even more aware of his cock inside him, imagined he could feel the movement as he ejaculated.

 

Jefferson pulled out slowly, apparently enjoying the sight of his enormous dick emerging from Philip’s hole, and then excused himself for a moment to remove the condom. When he came back, his eyes were ablaze with something that frightened Philip a little. 

 

“So, you think you can come again?”

 

He put a condom on Philip as quickly as blinking, and then, a moment later, his mouth. Philip could never have imagined, in his dirtiest, wildest dreams, the sight of Thomas Jefferson putting his dick into his mouth. It was so strange it would have been almost horrifying, had it not felt so terribly good. Philip writhed at first, oversensitive and overcome, but Jefferson worked him through it, his clever tongue manipulating him expertly, and those cunning eyes watching him, until Philip finally cried out and came for the third time that evening, so hard that he felt almost as if he’d passed out.

 

In the interim, when he was half-dozing, half-exhausted, Jefferson cleaned him up, undid the ropes around his wrists, massaged the feeling back into his arms. The tenderness was almost as bad as the teasing, and Philip twitched feebly, utterly wrung-out.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m just looking after you,” Jefferson said gently, pressing a kiss into Philip’s hair. “You were so good, doll, so good, better than I could have dreamed.”

 

“So were you,” Philip managed, and Jefferson laughed. “I… I enjoyed that a lot.”

 

“Even calling me ‘Daddy’?” Jefferson teased, and Philip flushed again despite himself. “I swear I’ll get you used to that. I’ll be calling you my little princess and dressing you up in glittery skirts soon, and you won’t even object.”

 

Philip thought that was supposed to be a joke, so he laughed, but he thought that maybe Jefferson was serious. Certainly the lack of objection seemed pretty accurate. He felt like he was merely putty in Jefferson’s hands, to be moulded as he wished. 

 

“Here.” Jefferson nudged into bed next to him, and threw the duvet over both of them. “You all right? Are you all right to go to sleep now, you look knackered?”

 

“Yeah,” Philip said with a yawn, and then remembered. “Shit, I said I’d text my mum.”

 

He retrieved his phone from his discarded trousers, and let her know he was at ‘George’s’. The guilt seeped into him as he stood on the cold hallway tile. He felt bad, he felt like he was going to get into trouble. He imagined his mum and dad finding out what he’d been doing, what he’d just done, what he’d just _said_. Him moaning around Jefferson’s cock in his mouth, him asking his daddy to fuck him, tears in his eyes, him straining against the ropes on his arms as Jefferson sucked him. He imagined the horror and the disgust and the disappointment, and his father’s fury. What would he do? What would he _say_? He fully imagined that he’d storm over to Monticello and try to kill Jefferson with his bare hands. God, what was Philip thinking? What was he doing?

 

And then he pushed those frightening thoughts away, because fuck it, he didn’t _care_ anymore. He snuck back into bed, where Jefferson’s long legs and sinful mouth was waiting for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the comments and the kudos, once again. Hope you enjoyed actually getting to the proper smut this time ;) x


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter has a brief description of dub-con in it. Nothing too extreme, and it's all just a fantasy, but please don't read if it makes you feel uncomfortable

 

 

When he woke again, the room was lit up by the light of Jefferson’s laptop as he tapped away on it.

 

“Sorry, doll,” Jefferson said, as soon as he realised he was awake. “Didn't mean to wake you, it's still early.”

 

“What time is it?” Philip murmured, his voice half-muffled by the pillow.

 

“Six. I was just doing some emails.” 

 

Jeez, Philip had slept through the entire night, and they must have gone to bed pretty early. 

 

“S’OK,” he said with a yawn. “It’s your house.”

 

He clambered out of bed and went for a piss, and came back to see that Jefferson had stowed his laptop away, switched on his bedside lamp (the dawn light didn’t seem anywhere close to penetrating the thick curtains yet), and was watching him appraisingly. “What?” he asked self-consciously.

 

“Just admiring,” Jefferson said, and Philip smiled shyly at the praise. He felt warm and comfortable, and would be quite willing to go back to sleep, but also quite willing to engage in other activities. Jefferson pulled back the covers on the bed and tapped the sheets meaningfully. “You getting back in?”

 

Philip did so, lying on his back looking up at Jefferson, enjoying the feeling of the luxuriously soft sheets on his skin. He stretched slowly and yawned, pointing his toes, and listening to Jefferson’s sigh of appreciation with a smirk.

 

“I believe you’re teasing me,” Jefferson said, mock-sternly, and Philip snickered as he relaxed again.

 

“Maybe a little bit. No worse than you.”

 

Jefferson smiled. He laid his hand on Philip’s stomach proprietorially - Philip twitched at the tickle, but lay still in supplication. It looked good, his dark skin on Philip’s slightly lighter abdomen. “Hmmmm. Well, I suppose it’s your prerogative. Not that I’m complaining, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve had in my bed in quite some time.”

 

“When did you first think…?” Philip began, and then realised he might not want to hear the answer, and closed his mouth again. But Jefferson was too sharp for him. 

 

“When did I first want you? Hmmmm.” Jefferson stroked at his stomach, as if absent-mindedly, though his fingers brushed Philip’s nipples in a way that was certainly not accidental. “Hard to say. You were always so cute watching us over dinner. I was curious about you, sure. But really, not until you started coming round here. You were so nervous at first. And that time when you played the piano…”

 

Philip’s cheeks reddened, and Jefferson gave a low chuckle. 

 

“Oh, you remember that too, did you? You weren’t very subtle, darling.” Jefferson’s hand found its way into his hair, gently combing through the curls. “I love these, by the way,” Jefferson said casually. “Your hair is a dream, it’s so soft. I’m jealous.”

 

Philip smiled. This all seemed so incongruous, lying in his father’s friend’s bed, his erection swelling and this man petting and praising his hair.

 

“Now, did you want anything else before we go back to sleep?” Jefferson asked, raising his eyebrows pointedly. Philip fought the urge to hide his face in the pillows. He wasn’t a kid, he was an adult, he could ask for what he wanted.

 

“Maybe,” he murmured. 

 

“Hmmmm,” Jefferson said. “And what sort of thing would that be?”

 

Philip shrugged a little. “You-you can choose, if you like. I’ll let you know if I don’t like it.”

 

“Well, the possibilities are endless, darling,” Jefferson drawled, taking his hands off Philip, much to Philip’s chagrin. “I would love to make you cry, but I think it’s a little too soon for that.”

 

“How long are we going to do this for?” Philip asked, suddenly filled with bravery.

 

Jefferson gave him a quick, surprised look. “I take it you don’t mean the morning. For however long you like. I’m not fussy. If you walk out now, or tomorrow, and you say you never want to do this again, I’ll be fine. Disappointed, sure. But it’s your choice.”

 

“But… but we could do it for longer than that?” Philip tried.

 

“Well yeah, if you want to. Until you find someone you want to be a real relationship with.” Jefferson didn’t sound jealous, or displeased at all, just matter-of-fact. “I know what it’s like. You’ll find a pretty girl, and you’ll…”

 

“Boy,” Philip said quickly. “I’m not… I’m not interested in girls.”

 

“Ah, really?” Jefferson said, sounding mildly interested. “Sorry for the assumption, doll, I should know better. Fine then, a pretty boy, and you’ll be off to have fantastically kinky sex with them instead.”

 

Philip privately thought that maybe sex with Jefferson was really going to ruin him for life, but he didn’t say that. Instead he said, “OK, sounds fair to me,” and then wriggled on to his side to give Jefferson an eyeful. “So, what are we going to do?”

 

Jefferson smiled, and leaned over to kiss him. His beard was rough on Philip’s skin, and he tasted of coffee - he must have already had a cup this morning. “That’s really your choice, sweetheart. I’m not sure I’ve got another round in me right at the moment, I’m afraid. But I’m perfectly willing to oblige you.”

 

“I want to…” Philip began, and then stopped. “I want to… please you. Not necessarily sexually, if you don’t want, I just…”

 

“You want me to tell you what a good boy you are?” Jefferson said, his tone gently mocking. and Philip flushed at how transparent he clearly was. “You want me to tell you how proud I am of you?”

 

“Yes,” Philip said, his voice a squeak. Now Jefferson was saying it, he thought what a silly little kid he sounded like - really just desperate for praise and attention, how predictable. “Please, tell me what you want, I’ll do anything…”

 

“You need to be careful of saying that, doll,” Jefferson said mildly, shifting so he was holding himself above Philip on his outstretched arms, kissing at his face and neck. “I might take you at your word one day.”

 

“W-what would you do?” Philip whispered, trying to hide his flaming face. 

 

Jefferson hummed around his skin. “Well. I don’t want to scare you.” His voice was teasing.

 

Philip bucked up beneath him. “Please, please, tell me, I promise I won’t be scared…”

 

“Well,” Jefferson said, and nipped gently at his earlobe, making Philip squeak again. “First, I’d have to fuck your mouth.” His voice was perfectly conversational, his words punctuated by kisses. “Not like we did last night. That was gentle. I’d do it rough, ’til you were gagging, ’til you were _choking_ on it, ’til your pretty face was wet with tears and my come.” That he whispered in Philip’s ear, making him wriggle. “And then…”

 

There was a long pause. “Then what?” Philip asked breathlessly.

 

“Then…” Jefferson said teasingly. “Well. It seems a bit unfair, doesn't it, that it’s always me coming up with the ideas, talking dirty. What would you like me to do?”

 

Philip lowered his chin, unsure. 

 

“This is what I want from you,” Jefferson murmured in his ear. His voice had a husky edge at this low pitch. “I want you telling me all your dirtiest fantasies, and I want you ashamed and blushed red all over. You don’t normally talk about all the things like that in your head, do you?”

 

Philip shook his head no.

 

“Well, now’s your chance, baby. Tell me. Doesn’t have to be things we’d really do. Just let me know what you’ve imagined. I want to hear you say it.”

 

Philip tried. He tried. He opened his mouth and thought of the best-worst things he could, but vocalising them was another matter. He was sure Jefferson was going to laugh, was going to think him too weird, or not weird enough. 

 

“You’re overthinking it, baby,” Jefferson chided him. “Remember. Here I am, man old enough to be your daddy for real, fucking you in my bed. I’m not going to judge you, am I?”

 

Philip trembled. Jefferson was so _close_. He’d turned his head slightly to stare at Philip, and Philip could have counted his eyelashes if he’d wanted to. It was harder, somehow, with him watching.

 

“It… It’s hard with you right here,” he said, half-joking, half-serious. “You’re… watching me.”

 

“Watching you is half the fun, doll,” Jefferson said. “You’re so sweet and scared. I’ve got an idea, though.”

 

He rolled sideways off Philip, dived under the bed, and returned with a strip of black cloth. He unfolded it to reveal a blindfold, and then proffered it to Philip. “For you, not me. Might be easier if you can’t see me, right?”

 

Philip hesitated, but there was a kind of logic there. With trembling hands, he lifted up the blindfold and put it over his own eyes. It was elasticated, and fitted snugly there. “Better?” Jefferson asked, from somewhere in the darkness, and Philip nodded. 

 

“Just don’t… don’t leave me, yeah?” he said, and his voice sounded nervous and vulnerable. 

 

Jefferson put a big warm hand on his shoulder, and kissed his neck again. “Don’t worry. You’ll know I’m here.”

 

“OK,” Philip said. “OK.” Now his voice sounded louder than usual, and he coughed a little. He felt like he’d shifted out of the mood a little, but Jefferson seemed to understand.

 

“So. Tell me. What are the things you think about when you’re jacking off?”

 

Philip snorted, it sounded so ridiculous coming out of Jefferson’s mouth, and he just knew he was blushing again. 

 

“Don’t be coy, we all do it,” Jefferson said, and one of his hands snaked a little closer to Philip’s dick. “Come on. You’ve got that famous Hamilton mouth, and the brain to match. Use it.”

 

“I…” Philip said. He was trying to find a place to start, and latched on to something that Jefferson had said earlier. “Sometimes…” He hesitated again, but this time Jefferson didn’t fill up the silence with words, he seemed to be occupied with kissing Philip’s ribs. “I’ve thought about w-wearing girls’ clothes.”

 

“Mmmm?” Jefferson said curiously, as if it was the first time he’d heard of such a thing.

 

“Yeah,” Phillip said. He flung up an arm to cover his eyes too, and it helped somehow. “Like, underwear. The-the lacy stuff. Or… Or a skirt.”

 

“You’d make a very pretty little girl,” Jefferson concurred, laving his tongue over Phillip’s right nipple and making him jump. “And what would happen, when you were wearing those clothes?’

 

“Some-someone… Someone would see me.”

 

“Someone like me?” Jefferson said lightly.

 

“Y-yeah, maybe w-when we were having lessons. If it was the underwear, I mean. And then you’d m-make me take off my clothes…”

 

Philip covered his mouth, as if trying to stop the words from coming out of his mouth, but Jefferson gently peeled back his hand.

 

“And then what, baby?”

 

“And t-then you’d… you’d…” Phillip’s breath was coming in short pants already, he was almost terrified of what he was saying, and trying to get it out in long bursts. “You’d see. And then you’d touch me, and then you’d… You’d make me bend over y-your lap, or the desk.”

 

“Mmmmm?”

 

“And then you’d h-hit me,” Philip stumbled. “Well, spank, spank me. With the underwear on. And then you might… use your fingers. And then you’d… you’d fuck me.”

 

He felt like he’d finished a bit lamely, but Jefferson gave a deep moan of appreciation that made all the hairs on his body stand up. 

 

“Oh, darling, you are very good at this,” Jefferson praised, kissing along his collarbones now. “Just the right amount of terror, hmmm?” Philip managed to giggle a little at that. “Give me another one.”

 

“Another?” Philip said, slightly daunted. 

 

“Yes. You’re doing famously. A worse one.”

 

“OK,” Philip said, and thought for a moment. Jefferson was gliding his hands up and down his thighs, and his cock was almost begging for attention, but he sensed it wouldn’t get any until Jefferson was satisfied. “I… I’ve thought about you… forcing me.”

 

He immediately covered his face again - this was even worse than the last one, and Jefferson let him hide for a little longer this time, until he whispered against Philip’s skin, “Tell me.”

 

“Oh God,” Philip said, half-laughing, half-stressed. “I… I don’t know… I…”

 

He took a heaving breath, tried to calm himself. Jefferson said nothing.

 

“W-when we’re in the study,” he said, and his voice was barely a whisper. “And when I’m… I’m a little bit drunk. I thought sometimes, if you…” He bit his lip. “If you’d wanted to… Oh, fuck… You could… You could grab me, you’re so much bigger…”  


Jefferson took hold of his cock and gave it a single stroke. Philip trembled and whimpered.

 

“You, you… You’d throw me up against one of the walls, and it… It wouldn’t matter if I wanted or not… I’d be drunk, and you couldn’t… I couldn’t stop you. I… I know it’s stupid, but I imagine… I imagine you’d just pull down my trousers and fuck me… Or… Or maybe, maybe my mouth. And I’d be trying to ask… trying to beg you to stop, but you wouldn’t…”

 

Jefferson’s hand was sliding freely on his cock with the amount of pre-come he was producing, but the movement stopped as soon as Philip stopped talking. Philip gave a desperate sob. “No, please, please don’t stop, please…”

 

“One more,” Jefferson breathed.

 

“No, no,” Philip whined. “Please, Mr. Jefferson, please don’t stop…”

 

“Give me one more,” Jefferson repeated. His breathing was heavier now, Philip could tell he was aroused. “You’re doing so well, pet. So, so well. Beautiful boy. Come on, tell me.”

 

Philip groaned, and wriggled again. He realised belatedly that there was really nothing stopping himself from wanking himself off, but that really seemed against the spirit of the thing. “OK. I… I’ve thought about…” His voice deserted him for a moment. “T-things, like… I know you can get t-toys, like vibrators, and…” His hips bucked up of their own volition as Jefferson stroked him again, and his toes curled. “Oh, and you… You can put them in, and then…”

 

“Then?” Jefferson prompted when Philip paused again, and gave a momentary press of his teeth against Philip’s hip. 

 

“You could… You could go about, and n-no one would know.” He exhaled shakily. “Please, please, can I come, can I…?”

 

“Not yet,” Jefferson said. “So close, baby, keep talking.”

 

“Y-you could put one in me,” Philip managed. “And then… Then we could go out. We… We could even go to dinner.”

 

“With your parents?” Jefferson murmured cruelly, and Philip’s whole body jerked involuntarily. 

 

“Y-yes,” he moaned, and he was almost crying from the torture of it now. “A-and, you’d know, and no… no one else would. So the whole time, you could watch me, and I’d be… I’d be…” Jefferson gave another long stroke, and all the muscles in Philip’s legs clenched. “And you’d t-take me back to yours, or just to m-my room at home, and I’d be t-trying to be quiet…” Philip whimpered, and tried to hide his face again, but Jefferson held his arms down. 

 

“What would you say?” Jefferson breathed. “What would you say, baby?”

 

Philip gasped for breath. “I.. I’d say, p-please, d-daddy, daddy, and you’d, you’d let me… you’d take it out and you’d f-fuck me, and hold my mouth shut, and…”

 

Jefferson finally took mercy on him, and increased the tempo of his strokes until Philip came, kissing him through it and murmuring, “Oh, you are perfect… So good, baby, such a good boy, you did so well.”

 

Philip barely even remembered he was wearing the blindfold until the aftershocks were over and Jefferson removed it for him. He blinked in the dim light of the bedside lamp, and then instinctively turned to bury his head in Jefferson’s chest.

 

“Hey baby,” Jefferson said, and kissed his head. “Baby boy, that was just what I wanted, you did so well, I’m so proud, yeah? So proud of you, clever boy, you’re so good…”

 

He murmured platitudes into Philip’s hair and shifted them over, so Philip could stay close to his broad chest, still trembling a little, shocked and in awe of what he’d just done. 

 

“You all right?” Jefferson asked him after a while, still holding him close. Philip nodded. “I’m not bullshitting, by the way, you were really good.”

 

“Thanks,” Philip said, his voice a little muffled. 

 

“Here, c’mere,” Jefferson said, and pulled him up so he could look into his face. Philip blinked a little under the scrutiny, and then let Jefferson kiss him. He still felt a bit hot and ashamed, but Jefferson’s obvious pleasure and casual pride made him feel a bit better. “Don’t be embarrassed, baby, I’ve got you, yeah?”

 

“OK,” Philip said, and relaxed a bit. Jefferson kissed his eyebrow, and it tickled, and he laughed. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem, kid. Now, go to sleep, it’s past your bedtime,” Jefferson said with a smirk.

 

“Shut up,” Philip complained, and pretended he wasn’t snuggling into Jefferson’s warm embrace as Jefferson leaned over to switch off the lamp. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as it stands, this is the last chapter of this fic (sorry it took me so long to update). Thanks for reading. If you liked this 'verse and have any ideas of future things you want to see (whether plot ideas or just one-shots/scenes - acting out one of Philip's fantasies, I don't know whether something like bringing in Madison would be too much, but hey I can't really sink any lower), please let me know in the comments! I can't promise anything, but I do love getting inspired by peoples' ideas and making them happen! Hope you enjoyed x


End file.
